Any Two Points
by tala-hiding
Summary: After her confession to Booth, Brennan decides that she doesn't believe in second chances anymore.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Any Two Points

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: After her confession to Booth, Brennan decides that she doesn't believe in second chances anymore.

**Disclaimer**: Bones belongs to FOX, Hart Hanson, and everyone else who works for the show. I make no profit in writing this story.

**Spoilers: **Speculation surrounding 06x09. No spoilers for future episodes.

**Author's Note**: Okay, confession: I haven't seen 06x09 yet. But I do read spoilers (kinda hard not to get spoiled for this episode, anyway) and so I have an idea of what went down. And I've decided that I don't want to watch this episode until January, when there are new episodes so that I won't have to wait in agony during the hiatus. :) Having said that, here's my two cents' worth on what goes down after "The Doctor In The Photo".

Also, this is currently a one-shot. But if you think it should transform into a multi-chapter fic, by all means, the reviews box is open. Thanks for reading!

* * *

_She says, any two points can make a line_

_But I know I can never make you mine_

- "Two Points", Deb Talan

* * *

Now, she drives to work by herself. She picks up her own coffee at a small coffee bar just a few blocks down from the Jeffersonian, a white-washed place tucked between two brownstones, with azaleas planted at the front and the day's brew written on on chalk and blackboard in front of the store awning. She tries to avoid the Royal Diner unless everyone else is going there - she finds there is no point eating there anymore when her favorite table - their favorite table - is not occupied by someone else, and there is nobody to force her to eat apple pie.

She always arrives at 8 AM, on the clock, not a minute more, not a minute less. She sends Dr. Edison to pick up the remains if there is a case, and expects the interns to handle the de-fleshing and cataloging of injuries by themselves, and only consults when absolutely necessary. She thinks that he should be thankful - one less body to protect from the bad guys, one less squint to take care of out in the field. She does not think she is special anymore; not that she ever was, to her mind, although now that she has had the time to examine her feelings, she can conclude that everything is ephemeral after all, and that now, she has no right to his time or to his words than that of a colleague.

In the mornings when there is no case - which is now happening with increasing frequency - she finishes her email correspondence by ten in the morning, and polishes off her coffee at approximately the same time. Sometimes Angela drops by, the curve of her belly protruding from underneath her fashionable blouses, a hand cradling the bulge protectively. Her best friend is staying at home more and more often, and they'd had to bring in a temporary replacement to handle the work load. The new girl, Alice, is capable enough, but still finds the Angelatron confusing and has a tendency to do the facial reconstructions by sketch and clay rather than the 3D rendering the entire team has gotten used to. This is fine by Brennan. After all, the equipment is expensive and is still patent pending, and would prefer that the technology just remain in Angela's hands.

After ten, Brennan usually makes her way down to Bone Storage. Sometimes, she sees shadows at the doorway and wonders if it is Booth, but it is usually just one of the security guards making their rounds. She briefly wonders where Micah is, before reeling in her wandering thoughts as her eyes focus on the bones in front of her. She misses Zach - again, a fleeting emotion that she blocks and bricks up and throws at the back of her mind - despite what everyone else said, he cared about her in his own manner. But she shakes her head, brushes her bangs away from her field of vision, and starts cataloging her observations with the newest set of remains. This is when she is most centered, most herself - there are no tears in Bone Storage, no recriminations or regrets. Only the careful marks of a life lived on the bone. She picks up the scapula, each delicate rib, rubs her fingers across the mandible of the skull. Her fingers feel the creases and hollows of each bone, waiting for their own story to be told. And she listens. She is a very good listener.

Sometimes, she remembers to eat lunch; sometimes, she doesn't. When she remembers, she slides off the gloves from her hands and tosses them into the nearest wastebasket and then walks back, upwards, back to the main floor of the lab. Sometimes, she feels like Dante clawing his way back from the bottomless pit. Hell is fire and brimstone, according to the more popular depictions - but she muses that hell is most probably being disconnected from everything and everyone around you. She mentions to Cam that she is going off for lunch and her boss offers her company, but she politely turns the other woman down. She is learning to breach the holes in her defenses. Step one: re-learning how to be alone.

She takes her car and drives down to a small eatery she has discovered on one of her late-night jaunts by herself. They serve a mean vegetarian curry, and she enjoys the bite of spices on her tongue. Sometimes, she brings a book with her. Other times, she keeps her eyes on the sidewalk, observing the pedestrians going about their day-to-day business. She feels quiet here, at peace. She has already resigned herself to being alone. It is easier. Being alone is different from being lonely, and she accepts that she is better off by herself - there is less chance of making a mistake, of living with regrets.

Sometimes, she drops by a bookshop nearby to peruse the latest titles. She enjoys being surrounded by the printed word: the wealth of knowledge, the timbre of voices. She tries and avoids the Crime & Suspense section; she has been accosted by fans asking for autographs before, and it just reminds her that she is behind on her latest novel. She toys with the idea of killing off either Kathy or Andy - she finds that she has no energy to keep up with her characters anymore, and muses on the idea for that particular storyline while idly flipping through the pages of a hardbound fiction novel with the title _Stormfall_.

After awhile, she walks back to where she parked her car and turns on the ignition. She flips the radio station to one that plays smooth jazz and expertly turns the steering wheel as she merges back into traffic. The sky is the blue of a perfect summer's day, clouds scuttling across the horizon, a soft breeze rustling through the trees.

She works through the afternoon and only looks up from the remains when she hears her phone buzzing with an oncoming text message. Hodgins is inviting her for dinner at his place. She replies back with a polite negative. They insisted on her company during the first few days, but that has become further and father in between these days. She accepts it with an easy grace. She wants to make it easier for everyone.

Once she is done with her examination of the remains, she rises back up to the surface again, blinking in the light. Only a few techs are still remaining; Cam's office light is dim. She makes her way back to her office to write up her report. Her back is tense, and she experimentally rolls her shoulders and neck to ease the muscles. Her fingers fly across the keyboard and she managed to wrap up her conclusion before the clock strikes midnight. The evening security guard looks pointedly at her, as though he is saying that she should get going. She shuts everything down, closes her door, and lies down on her couch for awhile, mustering up the courage to return to her empty apartment.

This particular evening, she dims the lamps and lies down on her couch, propping her head up on one of the couch's arm rests. She stares at the replica of an Egyptian mommy encased in glass in front of her. More often than not, these days she wishes she could be like this mummy: preserved forever, a replica of a life, shuttered away from everything that could hurt it. It needed sterile air, sophisticated equipment to preserve the remains, a glass box to shut away the world. Her bright blue eyes glimmer in the almost-darkness. _Is that what you really want, Temperance?_

Her iPod, docked and connected to her speakers, starts playing a low bass song, the rhythm almost like a heartbeat. What was the song again? Portishead, she remembers. Angela had been singing to it after her break-up with Hodgins. The electronically-enhanced voice pipes over the speakers. _Give me a reason to love you_. She laughs, a tinge of bitterness in her tone. She does not have any reasons as to why she should be loved.

Perhaps because of the music, or because she is tired, she does not hear the rustle of the door opening, the soft footsteps on the floor. She flicks her eyes upwards as a figure, dark and shadowed, looms over her. For a moment, instinct kicks in - she has to defend herself. But from what? She would become like Lauren - in fact, she _was_ Lauren, that last case she had worked with Booth on, so many weeks ago - except that she will not struggle. There is nothing else to struggle for.

The man's features coalesce into something less sinister, more familiar. "Long night, huh?"

She sits up from the couch. "I was on my way home."

He sits beside her, leaving enough of a gap between their bodies so that she wouldn't be tempted to reach out to him. "I never pegged you for a Portishead fan."

"Angela was the one who gave me the song."

He gives her a shadow of his old smile. "That, I can believe."

"What do you want, Booth?"

His hands are laced together tightly, his trenchcoat dotted with raindrops. He is like a lion, ready to pounce. "We spent so much time in this office, haven't we?"

"Are you feeling nostalgic all of a sudden?"

He looks at her and his brown eyes are dark, unfathomable. "I miss you," he states simply, his voice steady.

She cocks her head slightly. "I don't know what that means."

"It means that I miss you, Bones."

"You simply repeated what you just said."

"Because there's no underlying meaning behind the words, Bones. I miss you and I want to spend time with you right now."

She looks at her own hands. They are slim and tapered, and she can see the bones underneath the flesh. Carpals, metacarpals, phalanges. She curls her fingers into fists. "What about Hannah?"

"She's in Argentina right now, following the press corps."

"So now I'm the consolation prize?" She knows the words will sting, and she sees the proof of pain in his eyes, the downward curve of his lips.

"I deserved that, I guess." He leans back against the sofa. "I told you before, Bones," he says softly. "You are the standard."

She grits her teeth. She wants to run away, to slap him in the face, find some channel for the sudden rising of anger that she feels. She wants to kick something, punch something, feel something buckle beneath her fists. "You're with her now, Booth. You should go home."

He flips his poker chip out of his pocket and starts twirling it around his fingers. She knows he only does this when he is upset about something and needs to regain some semblance of control. "What if I was wrong, Bones?"

"We all make mistakes, Booth. It's part of human nature."

"Do you believe in second chances?"

She looks at him directly. "No."

She doesn't look back as she walks away.

* * *

**As usual, reviews are welcome, with much thanks! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Any Two Points

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: After her confession to Booth, Brennan decides that she doesn't believe in second chances anymore.

**Disclaimer**: Bones belongs to FOX, Hart Hanson, and everyone else who works for the show. I make no profit in writing this story.

**Spoilers: **Speculation surrounding 06x09. No spoilers for future episodes.

**Author's Notes**: Wow! I am pleasantly surprised by everyone's reactions to this story, and the clamor for an update. Of course, I write to please, so here's the continuation of the story. I'm not sure where it's going or what it wants to do, but hopefully I'll be able to wrap it up in another chapter or so. Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to write this story, and your comments warm the cockles of my heart. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

Again, this is un-beta'ed, so any mistakes, especially with the tenses, are all mine.

* * *

Most mornings (at least when his girlfriend is not away on some assignment or other), he wakes up to the scent of her skin surrounding him, the crumple of bedsheets as she wraps her arms around him, all slim and slender and golden girl ready for the world, her lips tracing his name over and over again until he explodes in a bright shower of bliss. She is the first one in the shower while he recovers from his orgasm - another indication that he is not as young as he thinks he is. Once he hears the water stop, he clambers out of bed and staggers to the bathroom as she exits, leaving damp footprints in her wake. He stares at himself in the mirror, wondering when he exchanged his face for something older, more lines. He sees the hint of a strand of gray hair on his temple and wonders if he should see a barber to get the damn thing dyed.

He hears Hannah call out a cheery goodbye and the echo of the front door slamming before he could reply. He goes through the motions of getting ready for the day: shower, shampoo, shave. Brennan once told him that he smelled like home, and he shakes his head to rid himself of the memory of his partner's voice whispering in his ear. (His former partner, he thinks sadly. She hasn't gone out with him on the field for six weeks now.) He dresses by rote - smartly pressed slacks and a white dress shirt, regulation black tie and suit jacket. He doesn't find the need to announce his disdain for the system anymore. Now, he just wants to be one of _those_ guys - the ones with the nine-to-five job, heading down to the local cop bar with fellow agents for a drink or three, coming home to dinner, still hot from the stove.

Except that Hannah doesn't cook; she once laughingly told him that she couldn't even boil water. He thinks back to Brennan's efforts at making him mac 'n cheese, and slowly expanding her culinary adventures, with him as the willing guinea pig. Hannah prefers her meat and potatoes; he misses the spicy bite of pad thai and rice noodles, laden with flavors. But she loves him, present tense, and there is no regrets in loving someone. Except that -

He refuses to mull over the possibilities. It's been six years of give and take, of chasing tail, and if he is being honest with himself, he wants Brennan to run after him. He sighs, looping his tie around his neck and examining his reflection in the bedroom mirror. He is ready for the day.

Nowadays, he usually arrives in the office a quarter after nine - if there were no active cases, he strolls in around ten. He doesn't grab coffee from the Royal Diner anymore; he doesn't want to run into anyone he knows. Even Sweets knows he's avoiding all of them. More than once, the younger man invited him out for dinner with the other squints, and he would always beg off the invitation. ("Sorry, Hannah just came back from New Mexico, and we're going to celebrate.") He knows he'll run out of states eventually. He hopes his geography is good enough to fool everyone once he starts telling them that Hannah's coming back from God-knows-where on the other side of the globe.

He still operates as the Jeffersonian liaison, although now it's Cam and Clark who goes out into the field to examine the bodies. He tries not to compare them to Brennan's methods - even he knows when it's sloppy work done by the techs, but if the squints refuse to call him out, then he won't do a goddamn thing. He rarely sees Angela or Hodgins via video feed these days; it is Cam who sends him updates from the lab, who makes sure he is on the same page as the rest of them when it comes to the forensic evidence.

He is usually done with his correspondence by one in the afternoon. If Hannah is around, they wander off for lunch at one of DC's trendier bistros. If he eating alone, he usually drives to his favorite hotdog stand, the one just a block away from the National Mall. He purchases his 'dog just the way he likes it, watches it wrapped in foil and plastic, and then wanders down the street towards the wide expanse of the Mall, searching for the perfect spot to devour his sandwich. Sometimes he buys a Coke; other times he just juggles a bottle of water as he sits on an empty bench and watches the world pass him by.

If it is an especially slow day, he walks the two blocks to the nearby used bookstore to peruse their titles. He is not much of a reader - he tries to leave that to squints and academics - but there is something comforting about seeing a dog-eared copy of _Bred in the Bone_ and flipping it to the dedication page, where his name is displayed. He runs his fingers across the letters, tracing the words 'partner' and 'friend'. They hadn't been like that to each other for ages - ever since they left for the Malukus and Afghanistan, respectively, but there was a part of him that hoped they would be able to pick up where they left off after seven months. That hope was now futile, he realizes. _Everything changes_, he remembers Brennan saying to him, citing some evolutionary evidence and whatnot. He nods to himself, surrounded by the decaying smell of paper and glue. Everything changes.

Afternoon rolls along like a cresting ocean wave and he busies himself with paperwork. Nobody ever told him that being a field agent still involved sifting through a small mountain of forms, varying from the truly important (chain of evidence, weapons discharge, etc.) to the insanely silly (how many cups of coffee was consumed from the office pantry each week). He no longer sits at partners therapy with Brennan and Sweets - once word had gotten around that Dr. Brennan was no longer handling active cases and Booth was a lone gun, Cullen quietly pulled the plug on therapy. Booth was thankful, somewhat, for the privacy his superior was allowing him - he knew that there was a possibility he was going to get reamed for being such a jackass and letting his personal life interfere with his professional duties, but all the same, he was thankful.

He tries to remember a life without the squints, without Brennan. Somehow, he comes up with a blank. Surely he had friends before they came into his world and turned everything topsy-turvy, but he is coming up with just a lot of fuzz between his ears. Sure, there were Ranger buddies and soldiers he called brothers, but none of them insinuated themselves in his life the way his motley crew of misfit toys managed to do in just a handful of years. There was Rebecca, of course, and Parker. And then, before he knew it, he was suckered into creating a new family for himself, for _her_, and now he feels like he is back on the other side of the wall again, the pre-Brennan wall, where her science and his intuition never mixed.

He clocks out at around seven and checks his phone for new messages. There is a text from Hannah, saying that she is following a story and had to pack her bags to leave for Argentina and when she comes back, maybe he could he bring her to that Chinese place he's always been talking about. He realizes with a start that he's never brought her to Sid's - it had always just been _his _place, and then _their_ place with Brennan and the squints, and now... he shrugged. Chinese it is then.

Sliding into the driver's seat of the SUV, he realizes for a moment that there's no-one waiting for him in the apartment, or at the Royal Diner, or even at the Founding Fathers. Tacitly, he accepts that he is not welcome at the Medico-Legal lab these days - they aren't _his _squints, after all; they're _her_ family, and like a family, they band together and protect each other. Even Cam, whom he knew even before she came to DC, now spoke dotingly of Brennan, and would often look at him in askance. Everyone had a front-row view of their story, and he realizes now that since it didn't turn out the way any of them planned, he has been cast as the villain of this epic tale. His heart breaks at that realization. He does not want to be the bad guy - he does not want to retreat in the background, quietly severing ties to everyone he's ever cared about. But he also wonders: Am I not allowed to be happy with anyone else?

He drives aimlessly across town, his own words echoing in his ear. _I'm that guy. _He knows that, deep down in his gut, he is right - he's been right about them from the beginning. W_ell then let's go for a different outcome here, all right? Let's just, hear me out alright? You know when you talk to older couples who, have been in love for thirty or forty or fifty years alright? It's always the guy who says "I knew." ... I knew, right from the beginning. _And yet, what did he really prove? She is the right one all along: feelings are ephemeral, they change with the drop of a hat. A part of him regrets not waiting - seven months is nothing in their grand story, and yet he is so quick to inform everyone that he is now in love with someone else.

Scratch that: he's only ever been in love with Brennan.

He loves Hannah, sure, with the same easy way that one could love something that fit just right. She is not a consolation prize - for most men, she was the unattainable, in fact. More than one of his trainees at the Afghan base would wolf-whistle whenever she would pass by their camp; more than one would pat him on the back, a sign of congratulations peppered with a hint of jealousy. Hannah chose him the way he'd chosen Brennan, all those nights ago. Except that even after all these months, he misses his girl - the real one, not the shining replacement he's been using to try and plug up the holes in his heart.

Before he realizes it, he's parking at the space beside her car at the Jeffersonian's employee parking lot and he's walking towards the elevator to the lab. The double doors open with a whoosh and a ping, and he realizes that it's past nine already and there's barely anyone on the platform. The night watchman gives him a polite nod and gestures to Brennan's office - the door is closed, but he can see the light on her desk shining like a beacon in the dark. He isn't quite sure what to say - he knows about her regrets, had seen her break down in front of him in the SUV, and he'd tried his damndest not to wrap his arms around her because he knew that with just one touch, he would slip and fall and would never be given the chance to redeem himself, and that would be worse than the mess they were already in.

He pushes the door open, his movements quiet and precise. She is lying on the couch, her face away from the door. Portishead is playing on her iPod, and the soothing bass sounds permeates her office. _Give me a reason to be a woman_. He isn't frightened anymore. He clears his throat. "Long night, huh?"

She sits up with a start. There are dark circles under her eyes. Her face is thinner than he remembers. "I'm on my way home," she says with a typically Brennan shake of her head.

He gingerly sits on the couch, suddenly unsure of what to do with his limbs. There is a wide open space between them - a chasm that has suddenly appeared. "I never pegged you for a Portishead fan."

"Angela was the one who gave me that song."

He nods. "That, I can believe."

"What do you want, Booth?"

He fidgets. Despite the warm air circulating in the room, he feels cold. Damp. "We spent so much time in this office, haven't we?"

There is a tinge of bitterness in her voice. "Are you feeling nostalgic all of a sudden?"

A leap of faith. "I miss you."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means that I miss you, Bones." He looks at her - really looks at her, and realizes that she is nothing more than a shadow of herself. Deep inside, he knows that this is his fault, and his heart breaks for the woman in front of him.

"You simply repeated what you just said."

"Because there's no underlying meaning behind the words, Bones. I miss you and I want to spend time with you right now."

"What about Hannah?"

Ah, there it is. "She's in Argentina right now, following the press corps."

"So now I'm the consolation prize?" The words sting, and he knows that she meant for them to hurt. Touché. In a way, she is both right and wrong. Yes, he is feeling lonely and was wondering if he could lose himself in her company for a couple of hours. But also, no. She is never second best.

He leaned back against the sofa. "I deserved that, I guess. I told you before, Bones. You are the standard."

"You're with her now, Booth. You should go home."

He fingers the smooth rim of his poker chip. He should have said it before - this was not a gamble. He was sure of the certainty between them. He should have known. "What if I was wrong, Bones?"

"We all make mistakes, Booth. It's part of human nature."

"Do you believe in second chances?"

He feels her eyes boring into his, blue lasers cutting him to the quick. "No."

She stands up and sweeps past him, the door closing behind her figure. After a few seconds, the music stops. The lights turn off automatically and he is left in the darkness, surrounded by the scent of her, the memory of her.

_Fight for her._ The thought twists and transforms in his mind. Sure. he's faced down bad guys for her, taken bullets and bombs for her, but has he ever fought for her?

Standing up, he moves towards the door. There's always a first time for anything.

* * *

**Don't worry! There's more - at least, I hope I have the energy to finish this. :) Thanks for reading and reviewing. Your words are much appreciated. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Any Two Points

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: After her confession to Booth, Brennan decides that she doesn't believe in second chances anymore.

**Disclaimer**: Bones belongs to FOX, Hart Hanson, and everyone else who works for the show. I make no profit in writing this story.

**Spoilers: **Speculation surrounding 06x09. No spoilers for future episodes.

**Author's Notes**: Once again, I'm blown away by the number of lovely reviews and story alerts I've received for this little tale. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I appreciate your kind words and your encouragements. It's hard writing fic when you're borrowing your sister's computer because your boyfriend borrowed yours and brought it overseas for the holidays. Not to mention the general craziness of the holidays themselves. Think of this as a delayed Christmas present. :) I believe we have one more chapter, which most certainly means that we'll wrap up this baby before the next new episode airs in January.

Again, this is un-beta'ed and therefore, all mistakes are my own, especially issues with the present and past tenses. :) Enjoy!

* * *

As he leaves the Medico-Legal lab through the employees' exit and jogs towards the underground parking lot where the SUV now sits lonely in its corner, he ponders the implications of his actions. Here is he, running after the same woman - he knows that it's insane, really, because she's smashed his heart into a million pieces over and over again and, oh God, he's just really tired, but deep inside, he knows that this is his last chance. Mentally, he focuses on the assignment, just like how they taught him in sniper school. Lock. Aim. Shoot.

He jumps into the driver's seat and drives like a madman out of the spiralling parking lot. Outside, the beginnings of a storm is whipping through the city: rain sluicing through the rapidly emptying streets, streetlamps blurring behind the curtain of water that seems to cover downtown Washington. Idly, he wonders why all their important talks seem to be happening whenever there's a downpour, and if this is a sign from Above, then he'd damn well better listen. His windshield wipers carve arcs of raindrops across the glass, and he drives half-blind, half-instinctively, towards Brennan's apartment, where he knows she would take shelter from the storm.

He parks the SUV on the curb and rushes up to the entrance of her apartment. The night doorman lets him in with a wink and a nod. "She's just gone up, Agent Booth," he says amiably - the man had been witness to the dance he and Brennan had been doing for the past few years - and gestures him towards the elevator lobby. Booth shakes his head to get rid of the worst of the drops clinging to his hair and climbs into the empty elevator. The cold is starting to seep into his feet (they'd always been sensitive to the weather after that incident in the desert; as a rule, he tries not to think about his time as a POW) and he shivers uncontrollably. The air in the lift is warmer than the raging gale outside, and if he sniffs the air, he can almost catch a hint of that mysterious, delicious scent of hers that seems to surround her even when she's neck-deep in corpses and the detritus of violent death.

The elevator dings as it reaches her floor and he walks purposefully towards her door at the end of the hall. It's now or never. The sounds of the storm is muffled here, almost distant, as though it were happening on another country, another world...

Booth knocks once, twice, and she opens her door, a wild-eyed, blue-eyed spirit of the night, her hair almost amber in the muted light. She has already shed her work clothes and is wearing a gray cotton nightshirt and dark yoga pants, her face scrubbed free of makeup. The weight of the world seems to be in her gaze tonight as she looks at him steadily, her mouth drawing a moue of sadness. He shuffles from one foot to another, wondering at the madness of the situation. "Bones."

She steps back from her door. "Come in. We have to talk."

Surprised at the suddenness of her amiable behavior, he follows her, puppy-dog-like, towards the open kitchen and sits at one of her counter stools. She moves towards the fridge and turns to him, arching an eyebrow, silently offering him a drink. He nods and she pulls out two beers from the bottom shelf. They are still masters of this silent communication - the held gaze, the raised eyebrow, the brush of fingers across an empty patch of skin that seems to be able to convey a myriad of emotions. _I will help you._ _I understand._ _I am here for you_. For a moment, they are Booth and Brennan again, sharing a drink in the quiet of her apartment, and the past few months have fallen away like dead leaves from the branch of their trees, their memories.

She sits across him and hands him the beer bottle. It's a dark brew, classic Yuengling, his favorite and he knows that she keeps it in stock just for him. He studies the condensation on the glass. How long has this bottle been sitting in her fridge, waiting for him? Did she think he would still stop by for Thai and conversation when Hannah entered their lives? Was this a manifestation of that hidden hope, so hidden that she could barely even speak of it, and when she did, it manifested as a maelstrom of tears and regret? He could feel his chest constrict as he looks at her. What gave him the right to give her hope?

Brennan looks at him frankly, dissecting his bedraggled appearance as though she was looking at a particularly interesting bone fragment, or a forensic sample underneath a microscope. Then she places her bottle down and sits opposite him, their arms barely meeting over her counter top. "I received a call from Hannah tonight."

He starts in his stool, surprised. "She's on her way to Argentina with the press corps."

"Yes, I know. I'm not certain why she called me instead of you." Brennan looks at him, and her blue eyes are a pool of kindness. "But she wanted me to tell you that she is not returning."

"What - ? Why - ?"

Brennan nibbles on her bottom lip nervously. "I told her that I was the last person you would want to hear the news from, but she was insistent. I could hear the call for her flight in the background. She wanted me to tell you that she loves you, but that she's slowly realized that she's not _in_ love with you. She was very clear on that, and wanted me to convey it to you using that particular syntax." She takes a deep breath. "She wanted you to know that there is someone waiting for her in Argentina. His name is Manuel. They met while she was working for CNN, covering a story at Guantanamo Bay. She says... she says he reminds her of me, which I am not certain is a good thing. They did not communicate for awhile, from what I understood."

Pain blossoms in Booth's chest - another one bites the dust. Another woman running away to another country to escape him. He might as well have a disclaimer tattooed on his ass: Warning: May Cause You To Suddenly Want To Move To Another Country.

"Anyway, it seems he communicated with her quite recently. She says she is open to second chances and said that... I should be patient for my own chance. She says that she wishes you well, and hopes that in the future, you can think of her fondly." In a rare gesture, she bridges the gap between their hands on the counter and lays her fingers over his clenched fist. "I am sorry, Booth, and I dislike being the bearer of bad news to you. You know I don't like hurting you, though," she adds wryly, "I seem to be doing that with surprising regularity over the past year."

Without forethought, he twines his fingers with hers, a lifeline to hang on to. Somehow, he's never thought that fighting for her affections - for the glimmer of their former friendship that seems to have disappeared since they both returned from their respective journeys, since that confession in the car that has left him breathless and tethering towards the breaking point - would be thrown off by this curveball. _She's not coming back_. The thought thrums in his head in counterpoint with the rhythm of the rain.

He barely notices when Brennan carefully pries off his death-grip on the neck of his beer bottle and leads him towards her guest bedroom. He stands, stock-still, as she switches on the lamps, fluffs up the pillows on the queen-sized bed, and turns down the duvet. She dives into the closet beside the door and presses a fluffy, dark green towel in his hands. "Sleep here tonight. You're in no condition to drive. The guest bathroom is the door to your left."

He is still shell-shocked by the news that he is recently single once more, and only belatedly realizes that he is taking advantage of his partner's hospitality. "Bones," he asks, turning as she makes her way out of the door, "why are you being so nice to me after what I've done to you?"

Unconsciously, she wraps her arms around herself, and he is once again reminded that underneath her tough, no-nonsense persona, she bears her own battle scars. "Because I care about you, Booth. And I don't like seeing you in pain. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy."

He runs a hand through the plush fabric of the towel. "Stay with me tonight," he says impulsively.

She shakes her head, sadness echoing in her every movement. "I can see that you're seeking comfort after Hannah's message. But I know what emotional weakness can do to a person. I've even experienced it myself. I think it would be prudent if we slept in separate beds tonight." Her eyes softens at the panicked expression on his face. "Booth, I promise I will still be here when you wake up. And we will have time to talk."

He nods mutely and watches her disappear down the hall, her footsteps swallowed up by the sounds of the storm. His heart heavy once more, he closes the door of her guest bedroom and mechanically goes through the motions of getting ready for bed: he strips down to his boxers and wifebeater, hangs his sodden suit and dress shirt out to dry by one of the convenient hooks that's attached to the side of the wooden closet, then removes his standard-issue black socks, balls them up, and throws them to the floor with a satisfying _thwack!_ It's quickly followed by his standard-issue black tie. Grabbing the towel, he heads to the bathroom for a long shower.

Underneath the almost-painful sting of hot water, he closes his eyes and allows the muscles of his body to relax. Hannah is gone - really gone - and he wonders what he was thinking at the idea of pursuing a relationship with her. He'd always been a long-term committed kind of guy, and after the whole Tessa debacle, he'd decided that he was too old for the kind of relationship that only involved the horizontal tango. It's the aftereffects of Brennan's refusal, he's sure of it, and he curses himself an idiot again and again, wishing that he could turn back time and do things differently. Would he have still hooked up with Hannah? Perhaps, but he definitely would have discouraged her move to DC. And moving into his apartment. And being introduced to Parker. He shakes his head. He's a royal ass. He'd screwed up the lives of two women, only because he wasn't man enough to admit that the mistake was on his end, and he'd scurried to the nearest warm body to validate his desirability, that he was important enough to love.

He turns off the water, towels off, and gargles with some mouthwash that Brennan had thoughtfully left on the sink. Turning off the lights, he moves towards the darkened bedroom, watching the shadows of the storm outside reflect against the whitewashed walls. He slips between the sheets and is surprised to find Brennan underneath as well, curled up on one side of the bed, her back towards him. She is breathing evenly, regularly, and for a moment, he just watches her sleep, her face tranquil despite the storm beating against her windows. He tries to ponder the implications of her presence in his bed, but suddenly, a wave of exhaustion sweeps over him and he totters towards the edge of the bed and slumps gratefully into the mattress. Brennan mumbles something incoherent and twists around. He turns towards her and draws her body towards him, curving around her back and bottom and legs, fitting himself into every crevice and crack of her. They had only slept like this twice, and both were under the guise of an undercover assignment. He sighs and pulls the covers up to their shoulders, trapping the warmth of their bodies under the sheets. She snuggles against him in her sleep, and he wraps a protective arm around her waist. There is time for talk tomorrow. Tonight, they just need to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Now wasn't that a lovely little scene to get you through until the next update. :) Once again, reviews are welcome and I appreciate all your words of encouragement. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year as well to all readers. You guys rock my world.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Any Two Points

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: After her confession to Booth, Brennan decides that she doesn't believe in second chances anymore.

**Disclaimer**: Bones belongs to FOX, Hart Hanson, and everyone else who works for the show. I make no profit in writing this story.

**Spoilers: **Speculation surrounding 06x09. No spoilers for future episodes.

**Author's Notes**: I know, I know, it's been ages! :( I've been held up by a lot of real-life things: being sick with a cough and a throat infection, shuttling back and forth from my home country to the country where I work, and to top it all off, as soon as I arrive, my boss tells me we're moving offices! So yeah, I spent most of last week packing up file folders into boxes, accidentally hammering my thumb while assembling Ikea shelves, and other exciting things that you do when you move.

Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this little offering of mine. Thanks once more for all your kind comments and reviews, and know that I appreciate each and every single one of them. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

* * *

Tonight, she dreams about losing him again. It begins the same way: they are walking down a dark alley and is in front of her, his hands cradling his gun like a lover's caress. His finger is negligently on the trigger, ready for the monsters that jump out of the shadows. Their footsteps are loud in the darkness: steam rises from the vents on the ground, and wet puddles from a recent rain shower reflects orbs of lights from the distant streetlamps.

Then they hear it. The unmistakable sound of feet pounding on the pavement. They move in closer, a synchronized unit. Booth trains his gun directly into the darkened alley, eyes and ears alert for any movement. She stands behind him, looking over his shoulder, wishing that she had brought her own gun and didn't leave it in the car. Booth turns, locks eyes with her, and then takes off into the alley.

She shouts his name, runs after him, but the alley is cold and unforgiving, and she stumbles over upturned garbage cans and the bodies of dead rats. Above her, apartment buildings criss-cross the sky, giving her only glimpses of the night. She fumbles for her cellphone, dials for backup, and gives them the coordinates of their whereabouts.

Bang.

She hears a shot ring out, shockingly loud in the still December air, and she rushes forward to where she sees a body drop on the pavement. But there is something in front of her, stopping her from getting there - a glass wall, thick as her arm and yet clear as the surface of a virgin spring - and she pounds her fists against the glass, screaming his name, and she sees Booth's body, seemingly illuminated by the city lights, tumbling to the ground, a red strain blossoming on his white dress shirt. His eyes are open, blank, like camera lenses trained towards the sky. His hand relaxes, releasing the gun, and she is panicking now, slamming her palms against the glass, pleading, crying, no no no...

"Bones."

"No, no, no, Booth..."

"Bones, wake up."

"Please don't leave me again," she sobs, her body trembling. She feels something warm - skin, cotton, love - wrap around her shoulders and she stills, whimpering. As she surfaces from her dream, she realizes that she is in bed, and that she's not alone. Brennan cracks open an eye and registers Booth's concerned face looking down at her. Embarrassed, she wipes away a stray tear and turns around to lie on her back. A lone vehicle trundles past her apartment building, the car lights sweeping across the window and throwing shadows on the ceiling. The digital clock read-out tells her that it's 20 past three. She feels a migraine coming on, and rubs her fingers against her temples wearily.

"Here, let me do that." Booth reaches out and his callused fingers start rubbing concentric circles against her skin, trying to soothe away the undercurrent of pain. He is close to her now, their bodies sliding against each other as he moves next to her. She shuts her eyes, trying to quiet the voice in her head that they were treading dangerously close to the line that separated friends and lovers.

"Bad dream?" he asks quietly.

"I'm accustomed to it," she replies, trying to salvage the shreds of her dignity.

"It's okay to be afraid, Bones."

She twists slightly, allowing his hands to fall away from her temples, looking into his eyes. After seven years of partnership, she's seen him in almost every imaginable situation, has seen his reaction to everything from being inebriated to near-death. And yet she's never seen this expression on him before - like he's seeing her for the first time, like he's witnessing the birth of a new star, an entire galaxy of stars. There is a light of wonder and fear in his eyes, and she's unsure why. "Booth," she begins, wondering what on earth she could tell him. "I... "

And then the fear takes hold of her heart again, her metaphorical heart, and she chokes on her on words. How could she divulge her feelings for this man - this man, who had all but abandoned her, had exchanged her for another woman? This man, who talked about breaking the laws of physics, of keeping what's between them as theirs, of knowing that he was _that guy_ who would love her - this man who decided that she was better off alone? Suddenly, she feels trapped and moves towards the edge of the bed, kicking off the blankets and the duvet in panic.

He rises up from the sheets. "Bones, Bones, what's - "

"Get away from me." The floor is cold underneath her bare feet, and she stumbles further away from the bed. She needs to get her bearings. When she crawled into the guest bed tonight, it was only for the intention of checking to see whether or not Booth was okay after Hannah's abrupt exit. But weariness caught up with her, and before she knew it, she had drifted off. But now she is wide awake, and she sees him looking at her, his brown eyes soft and sad. "I should get back to my own bed," she says weakly, straightening herself up. She's gone and made a complete fool of herself. Temperance Brennan did not cry in the arms of any man, and she certainly did not show her weakness to any man.

At least, not anymore.

Booth slips off the bed and pads towards her. The old rugby shirt that he'd left behind a long time ago (before the Malukus, before he gambled on them) now fit snugly across his chest and shoulders, outlining his bulk. He towers over her. "Do you want me to leave, Bones?" he asks, his voice rumbly with sleep.

"No, I..." She takes a deep breath. "You are welcome to stay. I'm certain that you would not want to be alone tonight." She moves towards the door. "Good night."

But before she could even open the door, he reaches out and wraps his hand around her wrist, effectively tugging her towards him. "Bones," he says. "I'm sorry."

Her forehead wrinkles. "For what? I don't understand."

"That night, in the car, after Lauren's case... I should've stayed with you. I shouldn't have let you be alone."

She purses her lips. Breathe in. Breathe out. "It's all right. I'm used to being alone."

"You don't have to. You're not supposed to." He steps closer, until they are mere centimeters away from each other. "Everyone needs somebody, Bones. Even you."

"Well," she says quietly. "I didn't have anyone."

"You have me."

She looks up. "No. I don't have you, Booth. I understand that I hurt you, that night, when I said no. And believe me when I say that I never intended to hurt you in that way. But I was afraid. I'm still afraid. And you proved me right. Feelings are ephemeral. One moment, you tell me that you know that we're meant to be together. And then, the next moment, I see you and you're with..." She lets her voice trail away. The wound is too raw, too fresh. "And I could see that she was good for you, that she could give you what you wanted without complications, without fear. She was everything I could never be to you. She has your kind of open heart."

"Bones." He grips her tightly, his hands sliding up her arms. "If she had my kind of open heart - _your_ kind of open heart - she wouldn't have left the way she did. It's the coward's way out."

Brennan shakes her head. She doesn't want to go through this again. She's already mourned him twice. She needs to move beyond this. "I don't know what else you want from me," she whispers.

He closes in on her: toes touching, arms around her slight body, forehead pressing against hers. She smells of warm summer nights and some kind of faint, flowery scent. "Just you, Bones. I just want you."

She sighs in his arms, her limbs slack. "I can't give you what you want, Booth."

He chuckles softly. "You mean, you're just somebody wearing Temperance Brennan's face and clothes and voice? Give me back my Bones then, impostor."

She smiles begrudgingly. "That was... amusing." She looks up at him, all shadow and form, malleable as flesh and blood and truth. "But Booth. We can't go back to the way we were."

He presses a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Sure we can, Bones. Baby steps."

"Sweets was right. We have a surrogate relationship."

"There's nothing surrogate about this relationship."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means, I'm done looking. I tried, and it failed. I gave it my best, but underneath it all, Hannah and I were just not right for each other. We found each other at a time when we needed comforting, when we were hurt by the people we truly loved. And I'm sorry for that, Bones, I really am." He tightens his hold on her, as though she was going to vanish at any moment. "And I'm going to spend forever trying to make up for the fact that I made you stop believing in love."

"What made you think I ever believed in it, anyway?" she asks, laying her head gently on his chest. His heartbeat is strong and sure, the rhythm a counterpoint to her own breathing.

"Oh Bones. If you didn't believe in love, you wouldn't have turned me down the first time. The fact is, even back then, you _cared_ enough about my own happiness to sacrifice your own. And even when I came back and you were hurt, you never stopped being my friend, my partner. If that's not love, I'm not sure what is."

She allows him to lead her back to bed, turning the rumpled covers over and crowding her towards her own side. She shifts and settles her body as he climbs in after her. "What do we do now?" she asks. Her hands move towards him out of their own accord and she finds herself enveloped in his arms as he pulls the blankets over them.

"Well, tonight, we sleep. Tomorrow, we'll grab breakfast at the diner, talk about stuff. Figure things out. We're good at that, right?"

The fear has quieted down in her chest, to be replaced by a sense of safety, of warmth. "Yes," she says drowsily. "We're good at that."

* * *

She wakes up to his arms around her waist, her bottom against his hip, his mouth pressed in a small "O" against the back of her neck. For a moment, she just wants to lie in bed with this man and savor the warmth of his body against hers. But there is an invisible chasm between them now: ever since that night in the car, when he allowed her to be alone, they've moved away from each other. She cannot remember the last time she shared a meal with him, or spoke to him about something other than work (and even those conversations were fast and fleeting), or visited his apartment. She does not know if they can ever get these things back.

She feels his breath on her bare skin as he slowly rises back to consciousness. "What time is it?" he asks groggily.

"7:45."

"Thank God it's a Saturday."

"You don't have to thank an invisible being for the regulated pattern of time, Booth."

He laughs, a short, breathless laugh like he's relieved of some terrible burden. "I gotta say, Bones, you've definitely got to work on your pillow talk."

"I haven't had the opportunity to engage in sexual activity for almost two years, so my skills are bound to be a bit rusty."

Booth looks at her, surprised. "Two years? Whatever happened to biological urges and all that stuff you were spouting on and on about?"

She shrugs, extricating herself from his arms. "I haven't felt the need. And I'm perfectly capable of pleasuring myself. At any rate, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. I'll just be in my own bathroom, getting ready." And with that, she walks towards the door and slips out before Booth could even take a breath and ask her to stay.

After a few minutes, he gets up from the Brennan-warmed bed and makes his way blearily down to his SUV, where he keeps a change of clothes for the gym. They're nothing fancy: black gym pants and an old gray cotton FBI Academy shirt that clings to his shoulders and abdomen when he's soaked in sweat. But when Brennan emerges from the room in jeans and a red blouse that shows off her figure _just so_, she gives him an appraising look. The latent heat between them springs to life.

"So," he says, trying to break the silence that seems to have sprung up between them, "shall we?"

They walk towards his car together, shoulders bumping against each other. The elevator descends to the lobby and the new doorman tips his hat as they exit. "Good to see you, Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan," he says amiably. Brennan does a double take - she's certain he's the spitting image of Micah - but before she can confirm, Booth sweeps her down the short flight of steps and towards the gleaming black SUV parked at the curb. She slides into the passenger side of the vehicle like she's done dozens of times in the past, but somehow, this feels new. Booth has spent nights at her apartment before, but never have they occupied the same bed, the same space. It's as though the line connecting their two points has become shorter and shorter i in the span of one night. She welcomes the clarity as Booth revves up the engine and follows the familiar path towards the diner.

They do not sit at their usual table - it seems that a young family has taken residence there. The father and the mother sit side by side, sharing a plate of waffles, while their children, a young boy at the cusp of adolescence and his serious-looking younger sister, dug into bowls of cereal and fruit. A stack of pancakes, cut into quarters, sits at the middle of the table, bright and fluffy for the taking. Brennan observes them quietly as they approach the counter and place their orders.

"Earth to Bones." She looks over her shoulder and Booth is there, looking at her with questioning eyes. "You okay?"

"Oh. I was just..." He follows her line of vision and sees the family at their table. His next words are whispered in her ear, sending a thrill down her spine.

"We can have a family like that, you know," he says quietly, his breath caressing the shell of her ear.

She turns around and faces him, just as their coffees are brought to the counter, along with their breakfasts. "Booth." She tries to keep her body from reacting to his words. When did the walls come down? When did she start believing in him without the empirical evidence to support his claims?

(Ever since the beginning, she supposes.)

"We need to talk." Steam rises from her coffee cup as she encircles the ceramic with her hands.

"I know."

"About a lot of things."

"I know." His eyes are shining, twin orbs of hope.

"I'm very different, you know. I can't just accept your sweeping statements about intangible things. I need proof."

"I have the rest of my life to prove that I love you, Bones."

She releases the breath she isn't even aware she is holding back. "You... you don't love me. You love Hannah."

"Correction: I _loved_ Hannah. And what I felt for her couldn't even possibly compare... never even reached a fifth of what I feel for you. And you're right - we need to talk. About a lot of things. About how I messed up a perfectly good relationship between us because I was hurt that you ran away, that you said no. And maybe if I'd never decided to save the idiot reporter who ran into a kill zone, I would have realized that you're still the one for me. But I was stupid, and blinded, and I'm sorry for that. So, so sorry for that." He reaches across and takes her hands between his, where they are sheltered and warm. "Please. Let me try."

She tries to give him a smile through the tears that threaten to gather across her field of vision. "Booth, I can't promise I won't run away again. This is frightening for me. You are, perhaps, the only person in the world I can't bear losing."

He gives her his patented charm smile. "I'll follow you then. That was my mistake the last time. I should've followed you. I shouldn't have run away in the opposite direction."

"It was a classic fight-or-flight response, Booth. There's no need to apologize."

"Well, I'm a fighter. And I should have fought for you." He leans forward now, as though he wants to share a secret with her. "So here's the deal, Bones: I want to fight for you. I want you to know that, from here on in, this is me fighting for you, being on your side, reminding you that yes, you are loved by someone else and that you are treasured and cherished in every way you deserve. Now, I may not be able to keep that promise all the time, and there will probably be days when you have to remind me because I'm only human, but yeah, there. I will fight for you."

She is surprised at the depth of the emotion that underscores Booth's every word. She finds herself suddenly calm, a pool of stillness in the maelstrom of his revelations. And even though it goes against what is ingrained in her nature, she believes him. She knows the truth of his words. She knows the truth of him.

Brennan is the one who initiates the kiss. She propels forward unerringly, her lips meeting his midway. It is only the fourth time they have kissed - the first one was one of promise, the second one was done under extenuating circumstances, and the third... well, the third was borne out of tears and heartbreak. It seems they have come full circle: she tastes the coffee on his tongue and beneath that, she tastes _him_. His lips are warm and pliable and, oh, he knows just what to do with his tongue and teeth and mouth that makes her want to throw caution to the wind and drag him to the bathroom stalls at the back. She thinks about the fact that while geometry states that the closest path between any two points is a line, she knows that it is not true. It is a circle, with both points occupying the center, neither one existing without the other.

* * *

**A/N: And that's a wrap! Comments, constructive criticisms, and reviews are most welcome. :)**


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